Artist of the world
by KowaretaTsubasa
Summary: [Oneshot] [ProKuwabara] A new look at the one some call Kuwabaka. Those who live by their own code, have acquired their own beauty.


**Artist of the World**

By: Kowareta

Some random person's observations on Kuwabara. What kind of impression can he give to a mere outsider?

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu Yu Hakusho

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I see him almost everyday in art class. He works diligently with the oils, the paints, the charcoal, the clay. He never says a word to anyone. His eyes focused determinedly on his next masterpiece. All his artwork is a masterpiece. All his art is beautiful.

He is not beautiful. You hear all the popular girls in the hallways discussing how ugly and perverted he is. About how stupid he is. About how clumsy he is. I don't believe them. There is more than meets the eye.

I like to watch him. I like to watch him make expressions through his art. He is an artist. Some say idiot, I say idealist. He's found something worthy in humanity and he strives to keep it. He found something he desires to protect. I wish I could be like that. To be as strong as him. To hold onto my beliefs even through the pain of death.

The teachers loathe him. I don't understand why. I would think they'd like to have such an inquiring mind in their classes. I used to sit next to him in Biology. He'd write down a bunch of questions that he had. He'd never ask them though. I think he might've been afraid of kids making fun of his questions. I wouldn't. I'd like to encourage him.

Right now in art we're making paintings. Great big canvases, using watercolor or oil. I made an abstract painting. It's a piece of crap. When I go to dump my paint-deluded water into the sink, I sneak a glance at his painting.

A wondrous grey weeping willow blurs into the background. There is a girl, an icily pretty girl, in the foreground. Delicate crimson eyes, lovely teal hair being blown by wind and snowflakes. Her face is only half finished. Small button nose, tiny mouth. A petite beauty. She is a girl, composed of nothing but snow.

I've seen him with her before. They were walking around downtown together last winter. He was paying so much attention to her, that when I said 'hello,' he didn't even notice. He didn't notice me.

The painting is stunning. I wish I could paint as he could. To be that soft, that coaxing with my inner talent. To gracefully lead the nylon bristles of the paintbrush along the surface of an empty canvas.

He is an artist.

I have never seen him purposely skip this class. He has been gone for several days at a time, but he never skips just this class. Actually, now that I remember, the only time he skipped this class was when, I swear I'm not lying, was when Yusuke Urameshi waltzed in and urgently whispered something into his ear. They left in quite a hurry. Family emergency?

I think the Urameshi boy is his friend. I see them hanging out a lot. It's strange because Urameshi used to beat him up a lot. I wonder how they managed to become such good friends. He and Uremeshi have other strange friends too. Again, I'm not lying, but they hang around Shuuichi Minamono from Meiou and some short guy with spiky hair and eyes that remind me of the beautiful girl in the painting.

After washing my brushes out in the sink I ponder upon him more. He lives more earnestly than anyone else. He tries more than anyone else. He falls a lot more than anyone else. He gets up every time.

He's amazing.

If I fell, I'd never get up. I couldn't, no, wouldn't be able to take it. I'm weak like that. But it's people like him that make me feel stronger. Faster. More powerful. He amplifies my beliefs. A conduit for inner strength.

Everyone starts cleaning up their supplies, even he, and waits for the end bell to ring. Art class is the last class of the day.

I watch as he carefully washes his brushes. As he deposits the dirty watercolor laden liquid into the sink. The same sink I dumped my water into. He closes the case of watercolors and puts them neatly away. He placed his awe-inspiring painting on the drying rack for paintings.

Our eyes meet for a moment and he smiles at me. I smile back at him sweetly and the bell rings. He practically darts from his seat. I frown slightly. I had wanted to talk to him. Get to know him. Uncover the artist's mask. I wanted to see the real him. Not the him who smiles through his faults, not the him who's clumsy, not the him who's ugly.

I want to know Kazuma Kuwabara.

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End file.
